The Truth About Dysfunction
by OverlyDramatic
Summary: Dysfunction noun: abnormal or unhealthy interpersonal behavior or interaction within a group. Example: family dysfunction.


Please note that in this story, Helga is sixteen. I attempted to leave some traces of her old personality, adding slight maturity to her bully persona, though I don't know if I succeeded in my endeavor. Please let me know if anything can be done to improve the story. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Not mine, blah blah . . . don't sue, blah blah . . .

The Meaning of Dysfunction

My family is dysfunctional. I realize that nowadays that doesn't mean much. People use it in reference to anything from sibling rivalry to rowdy meals. When I say dysfunctional I truly mean dysfunctional. Webster's Dictionary defines dysfunctional as: "Abnormal or unhealthy interpersonal behavior or interaction within a group." This is what I live with. All the time.

Take my dad, for example. Big, brutish, and completely obsessed with his beeper empire--though he still claims cell phones cost too much and sixteen-year-olds don't need them. He seems to operate under the principle that emotions lead to trouble and should be stomped into the ground; unless you happen to be my sister, in which case it is perfectly alright to bitch and moan, crying loudly and violently when anything goes wrong. Despite the fact that he seems to think I am my sister--seriously, the man only has two daughters; is it really that difficult to remember a simple name?--any emotion or distress is quickly beaten down. Sometimes a gruff dismissal, sometimes an angered rant, but either way my feelings have no precedence over The Wheel.

My mom must be the complete opposite. This morning, I walked into the kitchen and found her passed out on the kitchen counter, glasses askew and empty smoothie glass gripped loosely in one hand. Pfft, smoothies. Yeah, right. What's really pitiful is that this occurs daily at the least, and no one finds it worth mention anymore (if they ever did). Waking slowly, my mother stares at me dully, voice monotonous as she answers my questions concerning various household duties (at some point, it has fallen to me to make sure the house runs properly). Usually her responses to my questions lead to the bizarre. I'll never know how my mother can search hours for my car keys before finding them in the freezer as if that is perfectly normal. Really though, it shouldn't surprise me. I've been talking care of my mother since I was nine, before then even; I've been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember. I doubt my mom even notices. Her face and countenance apathetic, my mother wishes me a good day. I'm surprised she saw me leave.

Then there's my older sister. Little Miss Sunshine. The Center of the Earth. Perfection Personified. Everyone's Favorite. The Bane of My Existence. Olga embodies all that a perfect lady should be, and everything I decidedly lack. Pretty, popular, yet somehow genius as well. Apparently, she found some scrap of decency in our family and sucked it out of the genetic pool before I could inherit anything remotely useful. Figures. She flits around the house, all joyful and perky, cooking perfect meals and playing perfect pieces on the family piano. At least she's stopped winning trophies. Though the awards are not much better. Or better at all, really. And everywhere she goes, whatever she does, she pleads for her, "Dear Baby Sister" to accompany her, aid her, follow her every whim in pursuit of bonding. Like that'll ever happen. The worst part is, I don't hate her. She annoys me, true, and I escape at every opportunity, but the real pinch is mom and dad. When my sister comes home, it's like the whole house changes. Bob puts on his proud voice, Miriam stops drinking, and both wait giddily at the door, anticipating her arrival. The entire visit oozes hypocrisy, and I hate it. Or maybe I hate the fact that it's probably real instead of a mask they put on for their eldest. They truly feel happy, proud, accomplished, alive. Her presence does that to them. It transforms my parents in a way that I never will. And I hate that. I hate the attention they lavish on her while I sit invisible in the corner. I hate their sacrifices of my well-being for her benefit. I hate the smiles on their faces and the adoration in their eyes. I hate that she can do no wrong. But, more than anything, I hate the jealousy that digs into my skin, burning me to the core.

Each member of my family has added to the dysfunction. My life has been a struggle, striving to do better, longing for acceptance, hoping to explain the afflictions of my home. Because no matter what I do, how I act, what I think, it is my home. For better or worse. They have their flaws, monumental imperfections that usually seem directed at me. But you know what? That's why I love them. I mean, sure my family may lead to excessive emotional scarring--heck, I've been in therapy since I was nine--but in some twisted way, they've shaped who I am. They made me strong, made me tough, made me learn to look past the surface and judge people fairly. Because of them, I'm smart--both street-wise and in intellect--, I can handle myself, I know how to gain trust and when to give it, even if it's never shown. And I'm better for it. For them. Because I can handle life, and anything it throws my way.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not some steel fortress barricaded against close relationships--though some may beg to differ. I've just learned the meaning of true friendship, true caring. I've learned that there really are people who will sneak into your house at 2 am because you're having an emotional breakdown, or surprise you with a birthday party when your family forgot again. No matter what you do, no matter what you say or the insults you hurl at them, the people who love you will never abandon you. I love my friends with all my heart. I love my family too, just differently. And in a sick, convoluted way, I know my family loves me, too. They don't have to be normal, or attentive or understanding. They're my family. And I'm okay with that.

Okay, my first Hey Arnold story. I thought it was fitting, as Hey Arnold is what got me hooked on fanfiction in the first place. Reviews are nice, constructive criticism is nice, and flames are annoying--but feel free.


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